A little boy with flaming red hair traipsed around the house. He was almost sickeningly thin but his cherubic cheeks spoke against possible starvation. He paused in his meandering to gaze longingly outside at the other village children who were playing. His little brow knitted together, troubled by his exclusion.
He, like every other person, knew the legends of the monsters who lived in the rolling hills just beyond the village. There were varying examples of the heinous crimes they committed, such as abducting small children from their homes, but one description remained firm throughout all the retellings: they had red hair.
It was no secret that he was left to play by himself, the nearly constant cries of “monster!” reminding him of his difference in appearance.
His mother had told him he had nothing to be ashamed of, that his hair was ‘beautiful’ and ‘unique’, but the young boy didn’t want  to stand out anymore; he wanted to be included.